Plagiarism - it's the only way forward!

I can't claim this one - although I'd really like to. I found it on the internet - author unknown...

The 96 were watching as we walked out in Istabul
And Shanks and Bob and Emlyn, they were looking down as well
It seemed to be all over when Milan scored their three goals
But someone else was watching and that man was a Pole.

So the folks up there in heaven were a little bit surprised
When Pope John Paul the second appeared right before their eyes
He smiled at Shanks and Bob and Em knelt down and said some prayers Then turned back towards the lads and said “I just spoke to Him upstairs

– He can’t do much that’s obvious, but he’ll see what he can do
He thinks it might be better if you played a 3-5-2
He saw the team was struggling, and that Finnan needed a rest
But don’t you worry lads ‘cause now the ‘keepers gloves are blessed
You see - the lad in nets is one of mine So I put in a request

“I know I lived in Italy, down in the Vatican
But I can’t quite bring myself to be shouting for Milan
So the words gone down to Rafa, to do the best he can
He whispered very quietly he’d do better with Hamman

He’s says you’ll be alright from now The game it isn’t dead
And things will soon get better if young Steve uses his head
It was Vladi’s birthday yesterday and the man owes him some luck
He’ll even do the decent thing and make Milan Baros duck

We owe Xavi a big favour because of the broken leg
But he’ll need to chase the follow up and score with his left peg
And then just to make it interesting He’s ordered extra time
And we’ll see how good them gloves are when Dudek saves it off the line.

We’ve done everything we can to make sure the ball stays out.
But we cannot interfere with the penalty shoot-out.
So Shanks, Bob, Emlyn and good ol’ Pope Johnny Paul
Watched the match in wonder and cheered on every goal

And full time went to extra time with the fans nervously sick
And they waited until the time came for Serginho’s first spot kick
Serghino he missed the goal, and Pirlo’s shot was saved
But Didi and Lord Frodsham proved their nerves were not so frayed

Then Thomason put one in, but Riise missed his shot
Then Kaka scored, and Smicer scored, the atmosphere was red hot
And then almost in slow motion it was time for Shevchenko’s chance
But Dudek had different ideas and did a little dance

Then waited for a second as the ball came flying in
Dived to the right and parried it to save it for the win
And as they down on all the fans and scenes of wild abandon
Em turned to old Pope Johnny Paul and put his arm around him

And said “That was unbelievable, the best game without doubt –
But I thought you said you wouldn’t help with the penalty shoot out?”
John Paul looked up and smiled and said “Look son, it wasn’t me”
And I wouldn’t doubt the word of God in truth and honesty

So Emlyn he was puzzled as the crowd was going wild
But in the corner, on their cloud, Shanks and Paisley sat and smiled.
The moral of the story is that money can’t buy success
And neither can a constant whinge to people in the press

And writing a team off when the clock reaches half time
Might just result in something coming out of the divine
Because Shanks and Paisley knew, as the cup was coming home God
wears the red of Liverpool and we’ll NEVER WALK ALONE!!!

No girly can resist a man who looks good in Speedos

OK Folks,

Summer has arrived and we’d better act fast before it – ahhh shit too late….

I am reminded of a drunken conversation with a woman that I had in a bar (the conversation not the woman) about 3 months ago, possibly more.

Not the first conversation of this nature that I've had and I'm sure not the last - by “drunken conversation” I mean I was the one who was drunk and she was the one conversing.

Now don’t get me wrong – I love this woman to bits – and I’m certainly not going to embarrass her by naming her – just in case this blog really does start to gain momentum and she would actually read this.

She’s Flemish and quite famous around these parts, so her reputation could be tarnished and I wouldn’t want that. If there’s any reputation tarnishing to be done around here, it’ll be me own.

(BTW - have I just attempted to name drop without actually dropping a name? What a bizarre thing to do - and sort of defeats the purpose really, don’t you think?)

Anyway - for you see - drunk I may well have been – it was about 03:00 on a Friday night / Saturday morning, so I feel that it is my right as a human being - nay my moral obligation to be in such a state of inebriation – but I can still recall the crux of the conversation.

“This summer is to be one of the hottest on record in Belgium.” Famous Belgian Lady said to me.

Remember folks, this announcement was made to me over THREE months ago.

This was not the inane ramblings of somebody who was pausing between bouts of relentless howling at the moon. This lady is in her late forties, never drinks or takes drugs (at least not anytime I’ve offered).

So I did the only thing I could do - I took her for her word.

Actually - this isn't entirely true – “experts” had made the prediction and this lady was just repeating what she had heard. But still – it was good enough for me.

I settled down to my beer and dreamt of walks along the long, luxurious sands of Antwerp’s River Schelde (*) with my loved one(**) by my side.

And now, as we approach the last weekend in May, we find ourselves in the middle of a mini heat-wave (does that make it a ‘heat-ripple’ I wonder?) and I’m thinking to myself “This is it – the hottest summer on record is about to start! – time to dig out the old speedos!”

So I go to http://www.weather.com/ and check the 10-day forecast for Antwerp:

"30°C maximum yesterday", "31°C maximum today" but then – hang on a minute! – "Sat. 26°C"…."Sun. 21°C with showers".

But it gets worse: By Wednesday, we’re down to "17°C and rain".

What’s happening?!

It's no wonder I’m running around Belgium at the moment with the heaviest head cold I’ve ever experienced (Just how can one head generate so much phlegm?)

My normally wind and rain-battered Irish body is not cut out for this.

Either we go to hot temperatures or we don’t bother. None of this conflict between “YES – let’s REALLY go for it !!” and “oh no……perhaps we shouldn’t”

Belgium, STOP IT! - You’re doing my sinuses in!!

Cheers.
Sniff….

(*) = Like I said - it was a dream. I wouldn't send the Man United team training on the beach of the Schelde, let alone take a romantic summer's walk along it.

(**) = POSITION VACANT

Turkish Delight

“Loyfe is a Rollercoaster – ya’ jus’ godda royde it”

So sang Dublin warbler and permanent embarrassment to the island of Ireland, Mr. Ronan Keating and for once I agree with the smug prick.

Just where does one start?

Last night’s match was unbelievable, incredible, amazing – all of those things but for feck sake lads – is there any chance you could do it in a less dramatic fashion next time? I, for one, am not sure if my heart can take it any more.

For those of you that don’t know – the game panned out like this:

First half and AC Milan were sublime. First to the ball, accurate in the pass and clinical with their finishing giving them a deserved 3-0 lead.

A shell-shocked Liverpool walked off the pitch at half time looking like a team that was dead and buried.

I had to agree with them.

I spent the half time questioning the sanity of it all – devoting so much of my life to the mighty Liverpool FC. My mum always says “never love something that can’t love you back” My reply has always been “What? – even if the sex is great?”

But you see it’s different where Liverpool are concerned. I know they love me back. Every interview these multi-millionaire athletes give, they’re always on about “It’s for the fans” so they must love me, right?

Although even the most loyal, loving Liverpool fan must have been staring into the abyss during those 15 minutes of half time.

Apparently not.

I phoned my brother back in Ireland.

“Game Over. I’m totally gutted. There’s no way back from this!” I said despondently.

My brother was obviously replaced by some delusional madman:

“ARE YOU SERIOUS??! Where’s your loyalty to the cause? We’ve scored three goals in one half before, we can do it again! Get behind the team – they need your support. Bring on the second half!! We can win this!”

Perhaps my brother and I watched “Escape to Victory” too many times when we were kids.

I shook my head with the knowledge of someone older and wiser. “Oh the innocent folly of youth”, I thought to myself as I retook my seat in the pub’s terrace amongst the hordes watching the game on the TV that had been placed outside specifically for the game.
I went back to the loving embrace of my Corona and my packet of much-abused cigarettes.
“At least the weather is great” I consoled myself.

The second half kicked off.

And what a second half it was.

Within 15 minutes of the restart, 15 minutes that forever will be etched in my (and millions of others) memory, as Liverpool, unbelievably and incredibly scored three goals to bring them back on level terms.

I could not believe my eyes.

I was delirious. I was in ecstasy. I was in a seventh heaven where all around me was a sea of red.

But there were still 30 minutes to go.

Time enough for us to score another 6 at the rate we had started the second half but even my ridiculously optimistic brother wouldn’t have made such a bold prediction. Shortly after the third goal I received a text message from him. It simply read: “I FUCKIN’ TOLD YA!!!”

He had a point.

AC Milan came back at Liverpool, with Liverpool trying to contain the undoubtedly classier Italians. It made for some nervous watching, as I kicked every ball, headed every clearance, lunged into every tackle hundreds of miles away as I watched helpless on the terrace of an Irish pub in Antwerp.

We hung on until the end of normal time, meaning another 30 minutes of agonising torture. Again Liverpool defended like demons, with Milan having more of the ball – although it has to be said that like a couple of heavy weight boxers in the last round of a fight, both teams were dead on their feet from their exertions.

It’s at time like these when men step up and be counted.

Liverpool, stood up last night in that Coliseum in Istanbul and were counted, gladiators to a man.

None more so than their Polish goalkeeper Jerzy Dudek. Much-maligned during most of the season; when, with 5 minutes left to go in the match, he pulled off THE most remarkable double save from European player of the year, Andriy Schevchenko.

It was breathtaking stuff.

Nails were bitten to the quick. Cigarettes smoked to the filter. Coronas necked at an alarming rate.

And then, with two minutes of injury time played, the referee called an end to one of the most amazing games of football I have ever watched. But the drama was only just beginning.

The game was to be decided by the lottery of a penalty shoot out.

Except it’s not a lottery.

There is a technique to taking a penalty and there is a technique to saving a penalty. Liverpool demonstrated both in abundance last night as they rose to the occasion and blasted the Italians away, with more heartache for Schevchenko as it was his penalty miss – or rather Dudek’s brilliant save that lost the game - and the final for Milan.

Cue pure, undiluted joy for millions of Liverpool - and neutral - supporters around the planet.

Don’t underestimate the enormity of this achievement.

This tournament is competed by the best teams in Europe.

All the world’s best players play in Europe, making this the best football tournament in the world. I would even go as far as to argue that it is better than the world cup final, because teams are not restricted by nationality when assembling their squads.

But do you know what the sweetest thing of all was last night?

Watching that famous trophy being lifted up into the Turkish night air by our captain Steven Gerrard. A young man, who as a child grew up ten minutes from Anfield, Liverpool’s famous stadium and he watched his heroes from the stands, dreaming of the moment that he would bring Liverpool back to the glory of being crowned……“CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE”.

Just reading those three words starts to bring it all home to me. And – having won it for a fifth time – we get to keep that famous trophy. Only two other clubs in the history of the competition have achieved that – Real Madrid and, ironically enough, AC Milan.

We are now among the elitist of the elite and we certainly are no gate crashers.

Steven lad – you and the boys did the business. You have now written yourselves into our club’s long, proud history. Shankly would have been impressed and I’ve no doubt he and Crazy Horse, along with the victims of Hillsborough were all watching from above.

LIVERPOOL FC – CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE - YOU’LL NEVER WALK ALONE

The Day of the Big Game!!

Just bloody typical!

It’s the day of the big game – Liverpool v AC Milan in the European Champions League final - and I feel like shit.

20 long, lonely years in a football wilderness I’ve had to wait for this night to come and my reward is to be laid up with a nasty head cold - my throat is sore, my nose is like a broken water main, my head hurts and I’m coughing and spluttering like an old Volkswagen Beetle on a cold winter’s morning.

The first signs of the cold’s imminent arrival occurred on the Sunday evening.

Since then I have tried everything to get rid of it. Early nights in bed, I’ve tried to feed the cold, I’ve tried to sweat it out of me, I’ve popped paracetemol and hot whiskeys, but still to no avail – it’s as bad now at Wednesday lunchtime as it was on Monday morning.

At work, I’ve soldiered on like the trooper that I am but I have to admit that this is more to do with the fact that I am worried about my ability to make it in to work on time tomorrow morning after tonight’s game – especially if we win. Who knows? Perhaps the cold might take a turn for the worse overnight!

To say I’m excited about tonight’s game is an understatement. I was 12 years of age the last time we played in this final, and unfortunately it will be forever remembered by the tragedy that unfolded that night at the Heysel stadium here in Belgium, where 39 people lost their lives.

Let’s hope that tonight’s game will be remembered for a wonderful game of football.

Ach fuck it – who am I trying to kid?! Let’s hope tonight is remembered for a Liverpool win – how we manage it, I really couldn’t give a shit. We’re massive underdogs and rightly so - but a win tonight could happen and one thing’s for sure – head cold or no head cold – I’ll be cheering them all the way!!

COME ON LIVERPOOL!!*

* =
To the non-football fan, I do apologise for the emphasis on football for the past few blog entries. You’ll be glad to hear that tonight’s game marks the end of my season, so the football interest will die down for a couple of months, while I try and fill the void, left by its absence with something else.

Like finding a girlfriend, for example…

Not that I’d share that with you, no matter how discerning you think you may be.

Ah, OK – sure why not? I’ve created this monster, I might as well run with it…

Sweet F.A

Sweet F.A.

Saturday past as some of you may know was FA cup final day and was played between Arsenal (“The Arse”) and Manchester United (“Scum” – or for the sake of this story and a slight bit of political correctness, “ManYoo”).

FA cup final day is a day that brings me back fond memories of being back home in Northern Ireland with my mates, my Dad and his mates sitting in his local pub out in the sticks, watching the big game build up; the game itself and then engaging in our very own post match analysis; just like the BBC but without “Big Ears Lineker”, Red nose Schmeichel, or Alan ‘Captain Scarlett’ Hansen and with a helluva lot more alcohol.

Ashleigh, my long-suffering girlfriend at the time dreaded cup final day because for her, the result was invariably the same – a drunken, comatose boyfriend on cup final evening who was fit for nothing. It only took her a couple of cup final days to cop on and organise a night out for her and her mates on those nights.

Anyway, I was determined that we could have a similar day out in Antwerp, albeit without my mates from home, my dad or his mates. I had plenty of drunken volunteers. Most of whom were Manyoo supporters but I was sure we’d pick up enough ABU’ers (Anybody But United) along the way.

We met for a fry up at 12:30 at ‘Raes’ a fine wee greasy spoon café in Antwerp. Rae our host for the sumptuous meal was there as usual offering his opinions in his thick Scottish accent.

Fed and watered, we headed for the pub, arriving there at 14:00 – perfect timing for the start of the build-up. Drinks flowed, time passed, the game was played until at some stage we were all abducted by aliens, taken from our places in the bar and our brains operated on, before being returned to my position in the pub at 09:00 the following morning.

There are however vague recollections, little snapshots if you will, where the mind-experiments performed by the aliens obviously didn’t work.

These snapshots include: organising a sweepstake for first goal scorer – only for there to be no goal scorer, ordering a pizza delivery for the bar, a Norwegian glam rock band called WigWam, a Moldovan granny banging on a drum, oh yes – and ManYoo losing a game they thoroughly deserved to win (tee hee!)

Who knew celebrating another team’s victory could be so much fun? Let’s hope Liverpool ensures that our season finishes on a high tomorrow (Wednesday) evening.

One things for sure – in the intervening years between watching cup finals back home and watching cup finals in Belgium, if Ashleigh were still on the scene, she’d be begging for the drunken, comatose boyfriend on a cup final evening, compared with the dancing and singing epileptic that seemed to possess my body this year’s FA Cup final….

It's comedy Jim but not as we know it

Friday evening, I went to watch an evening of English-speaking comedy at the ArenbergSchouwBurg (easy for me to type) Theatre in Antwerp. It was to be as part of the "10 days of comedy" festival in Antwerp (http://www.spitspot.be/nieuws_frame.htm).

As is per usual with events organised by David Lemkin's “Standup World”, the standard was very high. There was a good turnout with I would estimate around 300 people at the show. The thing is though, the audience was predominantly Flemish which makes for a rather strange atmosphere at an English speaking comedy night.

Let me explain:

Now I’m not going to have a go at the Flemish and their linguistic abilities – indeed as a man that manages miserably enough to deal with his mother tongue of English, I am going to be the last one to have a pop at the Flemish.

In fact, can I state for the record, that I bow down in reverence at their ability to speak three, four or more languages with the ease that I change hats (if I were to own more than the one tatty Liverpool FC cap that is).
These ‘Flemmings’, or whatever they’re called, must rank as one of the most linguistic competent races on the planet. The fact that an English speaking comedy night could even be thought of being a success only goes to prove this.

Although yet, in spite of everything, I feel strangely compulsed to have a pop. I suppose I have the title of the blog to live up to – I mean what would this blog be, if I didn’t have just a wee pop every now and again?

You see the thing is – British and Irish comedy, is amongst the finest in the world. We all know that. It’s not bragging, arrogance, or even big-headedness, it’s just a pure statement of fact. Perhaps it’s something to do with the island mentality but nobody takes the piss out of us better than ourselves.

Granted, every now and then, the Americans will pull a TV show of great comic brilliance out of their ‘ass’ but for every Simpsons and Friends, there is a dozen “Top of the Class” re-hashes lurking in the shadows.

The whole emphasis of the "10 days of comedy" festival was on Flemish and Dutch comedians, save for the brilliant award-winning Nigel Williams, an English-born comedian who is fluent in Flemish and regularly performs in the language.

However, Friday night was billed as a “very British night” so the audience must have been prepared for a certain amount of piss taking.

Not this audience - it seemed nobody wanted to join in.

Comedians were asking questions but getting no answers back from the majority of the audience.
Thankfully there was a Canadian airline magazine employee sat on the front row who got the brunt of it.
There were a sprinkling of English and Irish in the audience but I think we were too few to have any impact.

Flemish audiences are very well behaved. They like to concentrate and listen to the jokes and it seems that their attitude is “I’ve paid to be entertained, not to be part of the entertainment” a subtle difference to the “Waaaaaaagggghghhhhh let’s get shitfaced and heckle the poor sod up on the stage” attitude that perhaps prevails too often back home.

But something in between would have been nice!

Don’t get me wrong – it was a good night and I’m sure everyone enjoyed themselves - the comedians just had to adjust their acts a bit to accommodate the - at times - cringingly quiet audience.

OK – I’ll get off me soapbox now.

Royal Bloody Antwerp!

Well folks,

This little blog - or blogette if you please - finds me pissed and more than a wee bit pissed off (if you’re American and reading this – yes there is a difference).

The reason for my angst? Royal Antwerp “Football” Club. The more observant amongst you out there will have noticed the quotes on the word “Football”. Believe me, based on what I witnessed this evening, the quotes are bloody well deserved.

The night started off in high spirits, a few of us meeting at the “stadium” (and yes – these quotes are deserved as well) an hour before kick off to indulge in a few pre-game beers. With hindsight, I would have been better asking for crack cocaine.

The match was against FC Roselare and was a Belgian second division playoff. The winner of the playoffs gaining promotion to the Belgian first - and therefore premier – division. The playoffs operate as a mini-league four teams, with each team playing each other twice.

Having already played the first match at the weekend against Roselare, and losing 1-0, this provided Antwerp an immediate chance for revenge and in order to keep the dream of promotion alive, a win was very much required.

I have re-read the past two paragraphs and think in no more than half a dozen lines, I have managed to convey the situation in an informative and succinct manner. I wish somebody had done the same to the Antwerp players.

Jesus – they were terrible!

They couldn’t pass wind, never mind a ball, they couldn’t tackle a fish supper, each player to a man seemed to possess the first touch of a baby elephant, they couldn’t cross themselves, never mind the ball and don’t even get me started on the shooting. It looked like they were kicking a plastic bag full of wet towels around the pitch.

And to cap it all off, their bald eagle of a centre half looked like he had a head shaped like a 50 pence coin, such was the control he had over where the ball went once he headed it.

I was not impressed.

But the thing that galled most was the complete lack of effort from the team. Apart from the first 20 minutes of the second half, there was nothing from them – in this – what was basically a “do or die” match

It’s not the first time that I’ve seen them, in fact I go several times a season but I would seriously consider going back. It’s hard to get wisdom teeth extracted every other week, but if that’s what it takes to avoid the sheer torture that I experienced last night, then it will be worth it.

Belgium is Boring? Royal Bloody Antwerp is Mind-Numbing!

The night we went to Staffy's

Nestled in the hills a couple of country miles above my home town of Ballyclare, in Northern Ireland, lies a small village called Ballyeaston – or “Bal’ Easton” as the locals pronounce it.

Very much a farming community, the village boasts a couple of churches, a village shop and a bar as its main social scene.

The bar, Staffy Carmichael’s, is named after its elderly proprietor, who, despite being in his late 70’s / early 80’s (hard to tell which) still works the bar on his own, although his wife has been known to make an appearance from time to time, usually when it’s time to give the patrons the hint that it’s time to go home.

Indeed the bar itself is more like an extension of their living room, with the rest of their home making up the bulk of the tiny building on the hill of Ballyeaston’s main street.

The thing is – despite having grown up less than 3 miles from the bar, I had never, ever set foot in the place. I had, however, heard plenty of the stories.

“Staffy’s” as the pub is known for miles around and beyond, is a pub from a bygone era. Indeed, the clientele themselves could perhaps be accused of being the same with many of them - how should I say it – of an elderly persuasion themselves.

Mostly farmers, the clientele were renowned for being, for the most part, of the “bottle of Guinness and Bushmills whiskey chaser” brigade.

I also knew that the pub did not serve any draft beer, only bottled beer and even then, that the bottled beer was served directly from shelves in the bar. No need for fancy refrigerators, with Staffy relying on the cool air in his storage room to provide the only chill that the bottles received before being deemed fit for human consumption.

And then there were the “toilet facilities”.

The toilets. Well – the toilets of Staffy’s were legend in Ballyclare folklore and if I was ever to ask anyone about them, the response – usually accompanied with a sly grin – was “ah sure ye’ll have to see them for yoursel’”

Well – a few days ago in the spring of 2005, the opportunity to do just that presented itself in the form of the night before my father’s wedding to his fiancé, Adele. Where better place for three sons to take their father – a man daft enough to kiss goodbye to his bachelor status for the second time in his life?

Staffy’s was the obvious choice.

The night before the wedding shouldn’t be a raucous affair. Long gone are the days when the stag night used to be the night before the big day. Far too often had grooms gone AWOL, turning up gagged and bound in far flung places, such as the ferry terminal in Stranraer, naked and tied to the lamppost outside Ballyclare’s Town Hall, or lying howling at the moon in a ditch.

A father and his three sons having a few quiet drinks in a small, friendly, country pub seemed like the perfect way to prepare the groom for the big day.

And so it proved to be.

But then of course, why would I feel compelled to share this story with you, Dear Reader, if it were not for the fact that there’s more to the story than this, “The Night We Went to Staffy’s”?

The plan was simple.
Friday night 20:30, and Darren my youngest brother, was due to arrive by taxi from his adopted home town of Carrickfergus – yes the one made famous by the song – at my mum’s where I was staying for the duration of my visit. The taxi would then take us the short drive up to my Dad’s where he and my younger brother Ady, would be waiting for the taxi ride up to Bal’ easton and the welcoming arms of Staffy Carmichael’s.

Darren, of course was his obligatory 20 minutes late, but we usually account for that where he’s concerned – he takes Irish time to a whole new dimension – and by the time he did arrive I was stood at the end of my mum’s driveway enjoying the nice spring evening.

As the taxi came to a halt, I jumped into the back seat. I was eager to get this show on the road. Having just returned from Belgium, this was to be the first time that I’d see my dad and because of the fact that I had missed the stag night from the previous week (it in itself a crime, considering I was the best man) this was to be my chance to join in the celebration of the big event – in moderation of course, considering the big event was to be the following day.

Darren, sporting what can only be described as a frighteningly luminous pink T-shirt; having been to Staffy’s the previous week as part of my father’s stag night – started describing the bar to the taxi driver, a “blow-in” from Scotland who’d been living in Northern Ireland for 18 years and was yet to lose the thick accent.

It seemed that I had missed a helluva night the week before, my Dad apparently running around town with fake breasts and an inflatable sheep, not to mention a “Stag” medallion.
I would have been so proud.

Up at my dad’s house we picked up the other half of the team, Ady and Dad walking down the driveway towards the taxi with a confident swagger (they had the swagger – not the taxi).

Suitably reunited, we set off to the scene of this tale, as well as its main character, Staffy Carmichael’s bar, arriving outside its unimpressive exterior a few short minutes later, a little after nine pm.

Walking into the pub, my senses went into overload. First of all – it was even smaller than I had expected – a small rectangular room about 7 metres by 5, with almost 50 percent of the space taken up by the U-shaped bar which was located to our right.
As we went through the door we nearly split up two farmers chatting at the bar. They turned to say hello (it actually came out as “’right byes” and then they returned to their conversation.
The only other people in the bar was a man stood at the far side of the bar drinking from a bottle of Guinness with a whiskey chaser sitting in front of him and an elderly man behind the bar who had to be the man himself, Staffy Carmichael, who upon recognising my father and brothers he said “Ach fellas – is the party still going strong?”

“Aye Staffy – the party’s still going strong and we’re back for some more” replied Ady walking the short distance to the bar to shake hands with the owner of the pub.

We all said our hellos and I was left to take in everything as my dad ordered the first round of the night – 4 bottles of Harp lager. Sure enough, Staffy brought them off the old wooden shelves, opened the bottles and set them on top of the worn bar. “Is it OK if ye take them in the bottle lads? I’ve ran out of glasses” Looking at the other three customers, I wondered how the hell he’d managed to do that.

“Sure Staffy – no problem.” It’s that kind of pub.

I picked mine up and tasted it, expecting the worst.

But do you know something? It wasn’t actually that bad. Granted, there were no drops of condensation forming on the bottle’s surface but at the same time - it wasn’t that warm either. I guess Ballyeaston can be a windy place when it wants to be, with God providing his own cooling system for Staffy.

Facing the bar, I looked around me, taking everything in. Behind me there were three small tables along a bench with a sparse looking collection of seats. Enough room to seat 12 – at a push.

Looking to my left, there was an old fireplace, filled with coal but not lit. Above the fireplace in the mirror there was an eclectic mix of decoration. An old black and white photograph of the now defunct Ballyeaston flute band, newspaper clippings, business cards and a book-mark proclaiming, “I love Staffies”, referring to the hairy, four-legged variety instead of the pub it was obviously bought with in mind.

And then I spied a familiar sight.

In amongst the business cards that had been jammed into the mirror’s frame, there was a black and white business card proclaiming “Black’s Magic”.
It was Ady’s “make a wish” business card. Ady, a budding magician has a business card which doubles up as a trick in his routine, a genie in the back of the card appearing out of a lamp, as if by magic.

It seemed that Ady had brought his routine out here to the “mountain men”. Lord knows what they had made of it. I grinned to myself as I pictured him doing his routine on these elderly farmers, providing them with an unexpected but I’m sure altogether welcome distraction to their usual talk of turf and sheep.

I surveyed the rest of the pub. It seemed that the eclectic theme was carried out throughout but unlike the God-awful Irish-themed “plastic Paddy” pubs that sprout up all over the world today, this was very much the real deal.

Surprisingly, I saw there was an international theme as well, as I spied a shelf high up on the wall behind the bar displaying ten or so bottles that there from “around the world.” I spied a bottle that I thought familiar with its distinctive, white and light blue label complete with pink elephants. Yep – there was no mistaking it – it was a bottle of “Delerium Tremens”, a potent 9% strength Belgian beer, which probably does exactly what it says on the label.

Excitedly, I pointed it out to my family.

“Sure that’s nothing” replied Ady, “look there’s a bottle of Duvel”. He pointed to another shelf behind me above the small collection of tables and chairs and sure enough, there was a bottle of the Belgian beer, Duvel - a tasty 8.5 percent concoction which is actually very nice served chilled in an iced glass, but I reckoned there wasn’t much chance of that happening in this particular establishment.

What a strange place this was.

“Have you ever seen a bottle of Belfast beer?” enquired Ady.

“Belfast Beer? What do you mean?”

“Staffy, can you show this man here the Belfast beer?”

With a smile on his face, Staffy grabbed a dust-covered bottle that had been sitting on the shelf behind him. Indeed it looked as if it had been sitting there behind him for a few decades.
It probably had been.

“Belfast Irish style Ale” the label pronounced.

Reading the rest of the label I took the strange characters of the text to be Czech, but I was wrong as Staffy was to inform me.
“It’s from Poland”
Lord only knows if there’s a Polish brewer out there still making this 8.5% strength stuff but after having done a “quick google” (and it wasn’t that long ago you’d have been arrested for saying such a thing) I did find a reference to a certain “Belfast Bay Lobster Ale”, an American beer from Belfast, Maine. Perhaps you can do better than me?

Next in Staffy’s list of party pieces was a dusty bottle of tequila that he handed to my father. As my dad read the label, Darren and I could see what it was that made this one special. Turning the bottle in his hands, Dad soon did as well – for blow me down, if there wasn’t a 6-inch lizard in the bottom of the liquid.

Ady, who had been distracted by one of his many local history chats with Staffy and a couple of customers – the bar was starting to fill up now with perhaps 15 of us in the place – came over to see what all the fuss was about. Dad showed him.

“Uuuuuggghhh!” squealed my brother who had suddenly turned into the 30 year old sister that I’d never had. Thankfully dad was still holding it, for Ady would surely have dropped it. The big girl’s blouse.

However, special mention with regards to the eclectic décor must go to the bloody great big glass case behind the bar inhabited by a giant, stuffed, white hare.
I kid you not.
Apparently, obviously a rarity, it had been caught in a nearby field, stuffed and kept for prosperity as decoration in the pub. Indeed in its death, the hare had become a bit of a celebrity around those parts, with the local rugby team adopting it as their mascot. Staffy even proudly showed off a 30 year old newspaper article about the bloody thing.

Very bizarre indeed.

But all of this was to pale into insignificance when compared to what happened to me next when, making my excuses, I went to the toilet.

I was directed out a door located to the left-hand side of the bar. I say “out a door” because the toilets of Staffy’s are outdoor toilets. Although this came as no surprise to me – I had heard this as part of the Staffy’s legend before – I still wasn’t prepared for the experience that was to befall me.

Walking into the property’s back yard, I was unsure where to go. There was no obvious place to ‘do the business’ and there were certainly no signs telling me where to go. To my right there was a shed with a dull light shining, so I figured that this was the place, but was still unsure. I walked into the shed, which turned out to be more of a low-ceilinged barn. There was a strong, but not overpowering smell of disinfectant.

Stacked up in the corner of the barn I noticed several crates of empty bottles but the thing that held my eye was what is locally known as a “sheough” (pronounced “shuck”).
This was basically a hole about 4 inches deep and a foot wide in the middle of the floor which ran the length of the building. I assumed – but was not entirely convinced – that this was the “toilet”.
Self-consciously opening my fly, I started about my business when a few conflicting thoughts started racing in my mind:

The relief of an emptying bladder
The worry of where I going to wash my hands?
The fear of how was I supposed to do a number 2, if the urge so caught me?
The wonder of where the ladies facilities were?
The panic that I was pissing in the wrong place and that Staffy’s wife would come out with some empty bottles and see me pissing in their store room, collapse and die with the shock of it all

I was suddenly startled from my reverie by the flapping of wings just above my head – indeed it was all I could do not to piss all over my jeans and shoes, such was my startled state. My eyes following the noise, I was sure that I was going to see a bat circling above my head but instead saw a little swallow that had just flown out of a previously unnoticed birds nest located above the single, solitary light bulb that was shining its dull glow over proceedings.

The location of the nest was no doubt to provide heat for eggs located within and this was the mother out having a look to make sure that the family wasn’t under attack. I decided to make my retreat back into the bar, not wishing to disturb her any further.

Ashen-faced, I rejoined the bar much to the amusement of my family.

“They’re some toilet facilities!!” I said somewhat incredulously.
“Aye – you should see the state of things when you have to take a shite” said Darren.
I hoped he was joking.

Anyway, the night rolled on as these nights tend to do and we had a very enjoyable time, the four of us chatting away at the bar, gentle banter, story telling and Ady grilling the old timers on local history. He can be a difficult one to shut up at times – and yes – this is coming from me.
The beer flowed – and then it was onto the “half ones” as our quiet night gently ambled into something verging on a big night out. Still it was only just after 11 pm. We’d all be tucked up in our beds at a reasonable hour.

At around this point, I noticed how the customers kept paying Staffy in bank-notes and marvelled at how he counted everything up in his head and dealt out the change out of a battered wooden drawer, without once complaining that we were taking all his change from him.

I also noticed that dad had his shoes off and was standing at the bar in his sock soles, which I thought inadvisable considering some of the muck the farmers had on their boots but no doubt made him feel more comfortable. Like I said - it’s that kind of pub.

There was no call for last orders, but it seemed that there was an in-built mechanism in the clientele that ensured that people didn’t overstay their welcome and even if a few did, Staffy’s wife appeared and made sure that people got the hint, without actually saying anything.

Ourselves included.

Wedding or no wedding.

“Any chance of a last one, Staffy?”
“Do you not think it’s late enough?” came the curt reply.
End of discussion.

We suddenly realised that we hadn’t ordered a taxi. I suppose this probably fell under the best man’s remit, but I had failed to organise one. We phoned around frantically trying to get someone to pick us up. The best any taxi company was able to offer was in half an hour.

We ordered it and hoped that we could stay, in the hope that some of the other regulars stayed to take the bad look off us. As if by magic, they all vanished, leaving us as the only people left in the pub apart from Staffy.

We (read Ady and Staffy) chatted somewhat about some of the characters from my Dad’s side of the family but we soon realised that we’d soon have to set off on foot and hope that the taxi picked us up en route. The sooner the better. But you couldn’t be too sure…

“We’re gonna have to walk to Ballyclare, Staffy – is there any chance you could set us up 8 bottles for the walk into town?”
“8 bottles? Do you want them opened?”
“Aye please”

I wondered how else Staffy thought we were going to manage to open them - in the pitch black darkness of the country road from Ballyeaston to Ballyclare. To be honest I was a wee bit worried about the walk to Ballyclare. The roads are windy and there are no street lights. I supposed we could always put Darren and his luminous pink T-shirt at the front.

Then, just as Staffy opened the last of the 8 bottles, the door of the pub opened.
“Taxi for Black?”
Our ‘black taxi’ had arrived.

“Err, Staffy – could you put he tops back on those bottles again please, we’ll have to take them in the taxi.”

Without saying a word, Staffy placed tops back on the bottles. I could just hear him thinking to himself, “bloody ‘townies’”

Still – as we left the bar, we all shook hands with this living legend and he was gracious enough to wish us a good day “the marra” and we bade him goodnight as we headed off into the darkness.

We got into the taxi.

“So that was Staffy’s then…” I said to no-one in particular.
“Aye – some place, eh?”
“It’s like the pub that time forgot”
“Aye – but isn’t it cool?”
“It’s definitely cool – although I didn’t think much of the female talent on display”

The taxi dropped us off at the town hall in the centre of Ballyclare.

The time had gone past midnight and it was now decision time. Do we finish and make sure that everyone is home at a reasonable hour and in a reasonable state or do we keep going and run the risk of an AWOL groom sleeping off his hangover in the morning?

This was obviously a decision for the best man.

“I say we go to the Ballyboe” (our local pub) “for a couple more” I suggested, providing further evidence that I was most definitely not the best man for the job.
“Do you think we’ll get in?”
Despite the fact that the pub is our local and has a late license, they are quick to close the doors of the pub after 11pm, to stop the waifs and strays coming in from other pubs that have already closed at 11.

Tonight, and not for the first time, we were those waifs and strays.

“Aye, we’ll get in no problem,” Ady assured us.
“But what the hell are we going to do with all these beers?” asked Darren, obviously the brains in the operation.
“Sure that’s no problem – I’m a magician - I’ve got pockets everywhere! Give them to me”

And so it came to pass that at just after midnight on the eve of the big day, My father and his three sons walked up to the front door of the Ballyboe to plead our case to the doormen. (Well Ady didn’t walk, so much as clink). As expected, the door was closed. We knocked and waited expectantly.
Stevie, the Doorman was his usual welcoming self.
“Ach for fuck sake lads – every fucking time it’s the same ones”

Which I thought was a bit harsh, considering it had been a couple of months since I had last been at home. Although looking back, it had been a similar scene then.

“I’m getting married in the morning!!”
“Fuckin’ hell – the excuses are getting worse every time!”
“He is!!” protested the sons.
Stevie looked disbelievingly at us but after a couple of seconds succumbed to our earnest pleading.

Sighing, he let us in. “Enjoy your last night of freedom”

Taking our usual spot at the back bar, we ordered 4 pints and proceeded to top them up with our smuggled bottles of Harp, feeling very naughty with ourselves until we realised that they didn’t sell bottles of Harp in the Ballyboe.

“Err, not sure where they came from but they’re not ours” I said unconvincingly when questioned by the barmaid about the empties sitting in front of us.

After an hour and a half, with the pub almost emptied, we were kicked out into the streets (not literally of course) and made our way home.
Saying goodbye to Darren, whose fiancé Leanne in the meantime had arranged to come pick him up, we jumped in a taxi to take us up the road, first of all to drop off dad and Ady and then me down at my mum’s.

“OK then Ady – he’s in your capable hands now. Make sure he gets to bed on time! See you tomorrow morning.” I said as we arrived at dads.

“Good night Best Man and don’t worry about the speech, just a few sheets of A4 should cover it,” my dad advised.

Ah yes, the speech. I had forgotten about that. I had started it but was getting worked up into a right old state about it. I’d better do some more work on that.

I gave the two of them a hug and got back into the taxi feeling content with myself if a little nervous about the following day would turn out.
One thing was for sure though - it had been a good night, the night we went to Staffy’s…

May 2005